


Go the Fuck to Sleep

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blanket Stealing, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 22:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: Sherlock is terrible in bed.No, not like that.





	Go the Fuck to Sleep

“John," Sherlock had said, his face solemn, "I would like you to know beforehand that I am rather… difficult.”

John had rolled his eyes in response. “Sherlock,” he said, “There are eighteen human hands on the coffee table.”

“I’ll have them gone by tonight,” Sherlock protested weakly.

John laughed, and kissed Sherlock's nose.

“If I can handle this much already, I think I’ll be fine with sharing a bed. It won't bother me.”

Apparently Sherlock had taken that as a personal challenge.

-+-+-+-

Shift. Creak. Smack of dry lips.

The mattress dips. Toss and turn.

Quiet, incomprehensible mutter under the breath. Shift. Creak.

Silence. Sweet, sweet silence.

_Shiftcreak—_

John groans.

 

Shift. Creak. Rustling of mattress and pyjamas, louder than gunshots, more grating on John's nerves than Sherlock’s midnight violin renditions of skinning a cat. John thinks he'd prefer that at the moment.

“For fuck’s sake,” John mutters. “Would it _kill_ you to stay still for longer than two seconds?”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open, keen silvery glow piercing through the darkness. Baleful and irritated. It makes John livid—like Sherlock has the fucking right to be annoyed.

“I must find the right position that will provide maximum comfort,” Sherlock says, slowly, like John’s some kind of toddler.

“You’re never going to find it,” John hisses, “if you don't stop  _moving.”_

Sherlock huffs, warm breath against John’s collarbone, and falls into a petulant silence.

John mutters and sighs.

 

Sherlock’s arm begins to tingle. It’s pinned underneath his body.

Sherlock keeps his eyes fixated on John. Slowly, slowly, with the utmost precision, he draws his arm out from beneath his torso. John doesn’t stir.

Sherlock exhales, tucks his arm into his chest, and closes his eyes, fully determined not to move.

Two seconds later, it is brought to his attention that the blanket is far too low. His neck is cold, and that is absolutely unacceptable.

With excruciating care, Sherlock grabs the edge of the blanket and tugs, meticulous, gently, _careful!_ cries his mind.

His legs decide that this is a good time to cramp.

Instantaneouly, Sherlock’s body betrays him and he _shifts(creak),_ and he kicks out his legs, stretching and arching his back and rolling his shoulders, squirming, pulling the blanket higher, higher—

 _“FUCK!”_ John screams.

Sherlock freezes.

John explodes. He springs up from his spot in bed, clambering off and onto the floor.

 _“Sherlock Holmes,"_  he yells, pacing back and forth, hands tearing into his hair,"it has been over three bloody hours and you have not stopped _, for the entire time,_ that fucking _shiftcreak,_ and I am so fucking tired of this _bullshit!_ Stay fucking STILL, and don’t move for longer than two FUCKING seconds and maybe then we’ll both be able to get some fucking _SLEEP!”_

Sherlock switches on the lamp on their bedside table. He watches John fume.

“Sorry,” he says.

“SORRY?!” John stops right in front of Sherlock, his hands in fists and dropped to his sides. His eye is twitching.

From their ceiling comes a loud _thump._

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Congratulations, John,” he says evenly, “you’ve surpassed the soundproofed ceiling.”

“Go to sleep,” John says with despair.

“I was trying to,” Sherlock mutters.

John makes a noise alarmingly close to a sob, and collapses back into bed.

He wraps his arms around Sherlock and tugs him closer, shifting and creaking (hypocrite, Sherlock thinks blithely) until they are facing one another, arms around each other with Sherlock’s head resting against John’s chest.

“Stay still,” John murmurs, kissing Sherlock’s ear. _“Please.”_

Sherlock draws in a deep breath, cataloging the scents surrounding him and neatly filing them away.

“I’ll try,” he says. _“But,_ there is an itch on my nose.”

John’s chest rises and falls. “Try harder.” He reaches down and scritches Sherlock’s nose.

Sherlock memorizes John’s breathing pattern and mirrors it with his own. John, in; Sherlock, out. John’s arms tighten around him, and Sherlock feels the knots in his tendons loosen and melt away.

They stay silent and still for three minutes and forty seconds.

“My arm is numb,” Sherlock says.

John groans.

-+-+-+-

John gets up to use the bathroom.

When he comes back, his eyes have adjusted to the light in the loo, and the bedroom is shrouded in a murky darkness.

He tries to crawl back into bed, only to find that he cannot locate the blanket. That, and there seems to be a suspiciously dark blob in the centre of the bed.

John shuts his eyes briefly, bracing himself, and reaches for the bedside lamp.

The light flickers on to reveal Sherlock Holmes, curled up smack-dab in the centre of the bed, completely wrapped up in every last bit of the blanket. And by completely he means that Sherlock’s entire body has disappeared, including his head. Just one big ball of green duvet in the middle of the bed.

John stares. He wants to cry.

John walks out of their room  _(his,_ if this goes on any longer), and over to the closet. He grabs the extra duvet they keep for the winter, and trudges back to the bed. Only to find that Sherlock’s subconsciousness has suddenly noticed the lack of another body in the bed and has decided to use that to its advantage.

Sherlock is completely sprawled across every inch of the mattress. His hands and feet are touching all four corners. He is still buried inside the green duvet.

John goes a bit insane.

He drops the new duvet and runs for the bed.

“Mmph?” comes Sherlock’s muffled voice as John pounces. “John, what are you—”

John’s hands feel for what he thinks is Sherlock’s head. He realises that Sherlock is sleeping face down _(what the fuck?)_. He reaches his fingers around Sherlock's face and he thinks he pokes an eye.

"John!" Sherlock squirms and struggles before escaping this scuffle by curling up into tight, compact ball and rolling over to the top corner of the bed where he stays, a grumpy green armadillo.

John lunges for the bundle of blankets and wraps his arms around it.

“This is bullshit,” he says, deathly quiet, to the wrapped-up lump that is Sherlock Holmes. “You want to keep feet in the freezer and toads in the toaster and turn our entire flat into a biohazard? Fine. But I am _not_ going to tolerate _this_ every single fucking night. Grow up and learn how to _sleep,_ fucking arsehole.”

The tips of Sherlock’s pale fingers appear, grabbing the edge of the blanket. Wide, bright eyes follow, peering through a crack.

“And to think,” Sherlock says, “that I’m the one who needs self restraint.”

John makes a disgusted noise and pushes Sherlock off the bed.

Sherlock hits the floor laughing. “Really, John,” he says, “Are we going to have a pillow fight, too?”

“Fuck off,” John says, but it doesn't come off nearly as effective when he's giggling. “I’m banishing you back to your own bedroom.”

“But John—”

“No!” John groans. “Get out. You are absolutely _impossible.”_

There is a pause.

“I did warn you,” Sherlock says.

John looks at Sherlock sitting on the floor, still swaddled in his green duvet, one half of his head peeking out with messy dark curls escaping from the top, and, despite everything, breaks into a grin.

“You are ridiculous," John says.

 _“You_ are extremely easy to provoke when sleep-deprived.”

John heaves a long suffering sigh. “You are terrible in bed.”

“That isn’t true.” Sherlock’s eyes take on a razor-sharp glint. “Come to bed without the objective of sleeping and I’ll give you extensive proof.”

He winks— _winks_ —and then stands up. He picks up the ends of his duvet (like it's a fucking dress) and saunters out of the room. He somehow manages to do this and look dignified—he's wearing a fucking blanket, for god's sake.

“Oh, hell,” John mutters, a smile spreading in spite of himself, and gets up to follow Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> Cracky oneshot. Title inspired by this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Udj-o2m39NA :D


End file.
